


Trellised

by canardroublard



Series: Dirty Talk [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (don't worry it goes well because I want them to be happy), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Birthday, Coming Out As Poly, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Humour, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canardroublard/pseuds/canardroublard
Summary: Illya Kuryakin has it pretty good. His blossoming relationship with Gaby and Solo has settled into a comfortable routine. But he can't shake the feeling that they're plotting something.Incidentally, his birthday is also approaching. Must be a coincidence.(or, my slightly belated celebration of Illya's birthday)





	Trellised

**trellis**

(noun

1 : a frame of latticework used as a support for climbing plants

2 : an arrangement that forms or gives the effect of a lattice)

(vb transitive

1 : to provide support with a trellis _ especially _ to train (a plant, such as a vine) on a trellis

2 : to cross or interlace on or through, interweave)

At first Illya doesn't notice it. Work is busier than it should be in July, with a bunch of summer students looking to improve their Russian in between school terms, enough that he's working most days, so he doesn't have his usual spread of free time in the summer, time he'd intended to spend with his boyfriend and girlfriend.

(He still can't believe he gets to say that.)

Thanks to this he hasn't been around as much as he'd like, though he's over to their side of the duplex most nights, and in his absence something has changed.

He wakes one morning to the sound of Solo and Gaby's murmuring, which is not uncommon, and which always makes him smile, keeping his eyes shut, basking in the moment. What _is_ uncommon is the way, when he shifts closer, pressing his face into Gaby's shoulder in a loose approximation of a kiss, his partners fall silent.

"Morning," Solo says after a second, voice smooth enough that he and Gaby must have been chatting for a while already.

Instead of her own greeting Gaby hums, reaching back, fingers wending through Illya's hair before her palm cups the back of his head, keeping him close, encouraging him with a quiet sigh when he smooths a few lazy, open-mouthed kisses into her skin. His stubble is scraping, he can feel it catch, but she doesn't complain. Though his eyes are shut he hears the break in her breathing and smothers a smile against her, knowing Solo's mouth has found hers.

"You—I have to go to work," she scolds, too breathless to carry much heat.

Illya reaches for her waist, landing atop Solo's hand, then slides his own forward, lower. "Not for an hour."

Gaby squirms back against him. "You have five minutes to get me off."

"We can work with that," purrs Solo.

* * *

They do.

* * *

Distracted as he is with work and gardening, Illya thinks nothing further of their furtive murmuring. In fact, he forgets it completely until a few days later.

It's another morning at their place; a Saturday this time, so no one has to be anywhere early. Solo wanders downstairs first, the sounds of him getting started on something in the kitchen filtering through the house, and after a while Gaby rises to take a shower, prompting Illya to wander down in his boxers, just in time to see Solo slip a pan of muffins into the oven.

Illya pauses at the kitchen door, leaning against the frame, treating himself with a moment to watch Solo, hair messy, sleep pants hanging low from his hips and Illya's shirt clinging a bit too tightly to his chest, starting to ladle the rest of the muffin batter out into the other pan.

"I know my ass is amazing, but are you just gonna stare all morning? I feel so objectified. I mean, I let Gaby ogle me in solidarity for all the crap she has to put up with from customers, because I’m a feminist like that, but you don't get that excuse."

Rolling his eyes, Illya crosses his arms while trying to find a suitable retort. "Maybe I just like standing here." It sounded more clever in his head. He blames English—what a useless language.

Solo's knowing smirk is already in place when he glances back over his shoulder. It's insufferable and kinda cute so Illya goes to wrap himself around Solo from behind, arms looped around his waist. That'll teach him. They end up lazily making out, Solo pressing Illya up against the kitchen counter, pausing when the pipes clunk as the shower shuts off; Gaby will be down soon. In bed they'd talked about going to check their gardens after her shower so Illya turns to head upstairs to put on some clothes, but is stopped by Solo.

"Hey, hang on, wait a sec."

Illya swings to face him. Solo's mouth opens but no sound comes out.

"What?" Illya prompts.

"The, uh..." Solo's phone begins to beep. "Oh, the muffins are up. Here, help me take them out while I put the next batch in."

"Why do you need me for this?"

"I just do, okay?"

"You're acting very strange."

"No, I'm not."

Illya nods in the direction of the oven. "Shouldn't you take out the muffins?"

"Ah, crap," Solo hisses, reaching for the oven mitts. "Illya—"

"Are those muffins?" Gaby wanders in, beelining for where Solo is starting to unload the muffins onto the cooling rack, pouting when Solo slaps her hand away with the spatula. No matter how many times she gets burned—and Illya has been around long enough to have seen it happen more than once—she never can resist Solo's fresh-baked treats. "Illya, we're checking on the zucchini, right?

Illya eyes her and Solo; something is definitely up. They'd make terrible spies.

* * *

After that Illya begins to notice more odd behaviour. One day Gaby comes back from shopping and disappears upstairs with the bags before he can even say hello. Solo drags him to the grocery store another time, meandering through the aisles, pestering Illya for his opinion on everything until he receives a text, checks his phone, then declares that they actually just need to grab some eggs.

The worst part is Illya can't even figure out how to ask about it. Every time he tries to formulate the question in his head it sounds paranoid and insecure, or accusatory, neither of which is the approach he wants to take. From the start, Gaby and Solo have made it clear that, though they were together first, Illya is an equal partner in this relationship, and he trusts them not to gang up behind his back, but he can't quite shake the feeling that they're hiding something.

Apart from these scattered, strange incidents, though, nothing has changed. Gaby always lets out that happy, hazy sigh when he curls around her in the morning, warm and contented, and still wants to garden together; Solo still corners him for shower sex sometimes when Gaby has to go to work early, always leans into Illya's body when they sit on the couch together to watch a movie. So Illya isn't too worried.

He's curious, though.

* * *

July 25th begins like any other morning. Illya, still half asleep, rolls towards the warmth on his right, met with a soft sigh as he connects with Gaby. It's been a hot week, too hot, really, to cuddle up against her like this, even when the fan they've set up at the foot of the bed starts to rattle back in their direction, but Gaby doesn't protest, just stretches, her back arching along his front, heels nudging into his shins, managing to end up closer to him when she relaxes again.

It's my birthday, he thinks, rolling the notion around in his head. 33 years old. He's never liked celebrating the day; his mother would always throw a too large, too formal party, even when he was small, inviting all of her friends so people he'd barely ever met could coo over how big he'd gotten, scolding him to sit straight so he didn't embarrass her. And at his last job they'd insisted on taking him out for drinks, ignoring his protests that he doesn't really drink apart from an occasional glass of wine, and everyone else had gotten so hammered that he'd had to drive them all home, which would have been annoying but forgettable except that Chad from the English department had thrown up all over the back seat of his car. So, no birthday this year, he had vowed.

Putting those thoughts away, Illya rests his palm on the valley of Gaby's waist, his fingers splaying across her stomach, remembering that morning a week ago when she'd given them five minutes before work, waiting for a similar protest now.

"Mm, yeah?" she questions, shifting again, waking up under his touch.

"Five minutes?"

Gaby grasps his hand, puts it where she wants it, and hums low in her throat. "I switched shifts with Naomi. I only need to go in for a few hours today, around lunch."

Illya grins into the back of her neck. Starts moving his hand, grinning wider as she wriggles. Across her he eyes Solo, still asleep. "Should we wake him?"

"I don't, _oh_," she breathes when Illya lets his hand wander, "I don't think he'll mind if we wake him up with a show."

* * *

He doesn't.

* * *

An hour later, Illya checks his phone and sees his mother called at three a.m., not a surprise since she never seems to remember the time difference to Moscow. On his way to work he listens to her rambling voicemail wishing him well, chiding him for how long it's been since his last visit home, asking whether he's finally found a nice woman—or a man, a man is good too!—to give her grandbabies with. Illya smiles, forever grateful to have her in his life, awful childhood birthday parties aside. He'll phone her back after work.

Somehow the people at this job also found out about his birthday, but to his immense relief they only get him a cupcake with a candle stuck in the middle. They do sing to him, right in front of some of his students, too, which is dreadfully embarrassing and which makes the students spend the rest of the day pestering him—Illya Nikolaevich, you _are_ going to celebrate, yes?—but no one throws up in his car so he concedes that things could be much worse. They also use the incorrect form of 'to celebrate' when he makes them ask in Russian so he manages to spin it into an impromptu lesson, which is a nice bonus.

After work he texts Gaby to tell her he'll be a few minutes late then sits in his car, staring at his mother's contact page in his phone for a few long minutes, trying to figure out how to explain that no, there are no grandbabies yet, but yes, he has found a nice woman _and_ a nice man. In the end he just calls her and after the usual greetings he blurts it out, no real preamble, making him screw his eyes shut and kick himself.

"A nice woman and a nice man?" she asks, not sounding upset, just a touch confused, so Illya takes a breath then explains it as best he can, thankful they can do this in Russian, so he can find all the words he needs.

"...So, yes, we're together. Like a couple, just...three of us," he finishes.

"Three of you," his mother repeats. "So, since there are three, I expect even _more_ grandbabies now, you realize this, yes?"

Illya grins, sagging, his head thumping against the headrest of his car. "I already told you, no grandbabies now. Haven't even talked about that."

But once they've finished talking and he's hung up Illya takes a moment to think about it, _kids_. He can't quite wrap his head around it, not yet, but he can almost picture Solo helping little hands knead bread dough, Gaby guiding clumsy, pudgy fingers to tie up wandering watermelon vines, and the image hits him so deep in the chest he has to close his eyes, bowled over by the intensity of it.

By the time he gets back home he's pulled himself together again, tucked away those imaginings for the future. He stops by his half of the duplex first, since his life awkwardly straddles both sides, living increasingly at theirs rather than his, but not really moved in, evidenced by most of his clothes still being at his half. It's something they've been skirting around addressing, something which will have to come up soon, since his lease is up in a couple of months, but for now it's another thing to put aside. He strips out of his work clothes, hunting around for his favourite black t-shirt, growling when he realizes he left it at Gaby and Solo's place, and then growling again when he notices that it's been far too long since he did laundry, something he always forgets now that he's never at his own house anymore. He finds something clean to wear then gathers up the rest in an armful, journeying down to throw them in the wash before considering that if he does that then he'll have to remember to come get them in a while once the machine is done, and probably interrupt dinner to do so. Sighing, he tosses everything in a laundry basket so he can heft it across the lawn, pausing to snap some overambitious side-branching suckers off his tomatoes with one hand.

Solo is just walking up the front path as Illya crosses over to their property, greeting Illya with a quick kiss before letting them both in the door, chatting about their days at work while they toe off their shoes and Illya juggles the laundry basket. He's just set it down for a moment when Solo pauses in the middle of a story.

"So I said—Do you smell smoke?"

"You asked her if she smelled smoke? That doesn't make—"

"No, I mean, do you smell smoke now, Illya?"

Illya...does, actually. He glances around, doesn't see any obvious signs of a fire, trailing after Solo as he heads for the kitchen.

"Hey, hun? You in there?"

"Yes," Gaby calls out. "And thank God you're here. Your instructions suck. I followed the recipe, so I don't know what happened, but it is _not_ good. But Illya texted me to say he's running late so get in here and help me fix this before he—"

As the men round the corner Gaby falls silent. Mouth opening to greet her, Illya instead blinks, attempting to comprehend the current state of the kitchen, which is never impeccable but typically exists in a sort of controlled untidiness. Now, however, every mixing bowl they possess is lying discarded on the counters, measuring cups and spoons strewn in between them, all dirty, the hand mixer is abandoned to lie on its side, beaters dripping batter onto the counter, and wisps of smoke curl out from the round pan sitting on the stovetop. And Gaby, in the thick of it, hair half fallen from a bun, flour on her face, one hand gloved in an oven mitt, stares at them, eyes wild.

"You're home early," she states blankly, looking to Illya.

"Traffic was good."

There's a pause.

"_Scheisse_."

Any further discussion is put on hold when the smoke detector starts howling.

* * *

"You know, this is actually a good reminder, I needed to change the smoke detector batteries anyways."

Gaby makes desperate, incredulous noise as she leans into Solo, bumping his shoulder, jostling the takeout container in her lap as they all sit on the front step while the kitchen airs out. "Get Illya to do it, he can probably reach without standing on a chair." Then she slumps a bit, morose. "I'm sorry I ruined the cake, Illya. I really wanted to...I don't know. We wanted it to be nice for you."

"You really were going to do all of this for me? How did you even know it's my birthday?"

Solo grins, nudging Gaby back, trying to coax a smile out of her. "Gaby's idea. She remembered when you said you'd always had terrible birthdays, and she thought we should try to fix that. We just weren't sure when yours was."

"So I got Napoleon to distract you while I looked at your driver's license. You always leave your wallet on the top of my dresser."

Illya thinks back. "That morning you made muffins? When you were acting strange?"

"Yeah, I really took one for the team." Solo winks at Illya, making him flush at the memory of their make-out session. "And then we kinda panicked when we realized we only had ten days to get everything together. Actually, we should—Gabs, where did you put—?"

"In my closet. Here, I'll help you get stuff. Stay here," she commands Illya, rising, gathering up the now empty takeout boxes. "We'll be right back."

While they disappear into the house Illya sets his elbows on the top step and shifts back, tipping his face up to the sun, able to hear, through the open windows, the muffled back-and-forth of Gaby and Solo talking to each other inside, smiling reflexively when Solo laughs at something she says. Then he looks out over their gardens, his a bit bushy and overgrown, neglected this year since he's spent so much time over here; Gaby's quietly thriving, that bed she'd dug by herself a year ago, when they'd first moved in, now expanded and enriched with better soil, lots of compost, under Illya's guidance. Silhouetted by the early evening sun, low in the sky, he notices that the curly scapes have been snipped off most of the garlic plants; Solo must have been doing that. It fills him with an odd, primal satisfaction, that he's been providing for them in his own small way.

"Okay, close your eyes," Gaby directs as the door creaks open behind him.

Illya snorts but obeys, even putting his hands over his eyes when Solo questions whether he _really_ has them shut. A moment later something is set in his lap, a soft, slight weight, and he's told he can look as his partners sit back down, this time flanking him on either side.

It's a small parcel, wrapped in blue paper with cartoon dinosaurs, lumpy and oblong, with a stuck-on red plastic bow that looks recycled from Christmas, and a small white envelope taped to the front.

"I like the paper," he comments with a smirk. "Card first or present?"

Gaby and Solo glance across him at each other. "Present," Gaby says.

Illya nods, fingers searching for the seam in the paper then starting to tear it open. He reveals a flat cap, a subtle herringbone grey wool, faintly fuzzy under his hands.

"We thought it would suit you," Solo explains, slipping the cap away, brushing Illya's hair aside and setting the hat on his head, his hand dropping to linger on the side of Illya's neck.

"Here, what do you think?" Gaby leans in, her phone already out and set to selfie mode so Illya can take a look. He squints at the image of himself, turns his head this way and that.

"It's good. Very handsome." Reaching up, he adjusts it slightly from where Solo put it, setting it more securely on his head, smiling at each of them in turn. "Now the card?"

With another glance to each other, Gaby and Solo both confirm this. Illya rips the envelope open to pull out a wide-eyed black cat dressed in a Darth Vader costume.

"’I sense a disturbance in the force’," Illya reads on the front before flipping it open. "’No, wait, it's just a hairball. Happy birthday.’"

"That's Darth Vader. Remember him? From Star Wars," Solo deadpans. "That movie we made you watch last year because you somehow had never seen it before."

"Yes, I know Darth Vader. Big tall evil man, not the little frog with too much ear hair." Illya retorts, pausing then to read a message scrawled in Gaby's messy cursive below the printed greeting. 'Happy birthday to the biggest, bestest (Napoleon insists that's a real word. English is weird) Russian we know, with all our love.' There's a little arrow pointing to the space between 'biggest' and 'bestest', to which Solo has added 'sexiest'. Illya feels his face split into a huge grin.

"Happy birthday, Illya," Gaby murmurs, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

"Yeah, happy birthday, big guy." Solo adds his own kiss to the other cheek.

But taped to the inside of the card is also a key. Illya frowns, fingering it. "What's this for?"

"For our house," says Solo.

"But I already have a key to your house. You gave it to me ages ago, because you keep locking yourselves out. This was last summer."

"Okay, it was only _one_ time I got locked out," Gaby protests.

"And I did not 'lock myself out', Gaby locked _me_ out."

"How was I supposed to know you didn't have your key? You're supposed to bring it when you go out! It's your own fault."

"God, if only there was some way you could instantly communicate with me, even from afar, to ask whether I had my key before you lock me out. Some sort of...mobile...telephone? What am I saying? That's ridiculous. It'll never w—"

"So, why another key?" Illya interrupts, knowing that if he lets them continue they'll be at it all night. "I don't need a spare."

"It's not literally—" Gaby begins before turning to Solo. "I told you this was a dumb idea."

"Okay, yeah, you were right. I admit it." He flashes her a smile. "But I'm cute, right?"

Chuffing, Gaby rolls her eyes, mouth quivering with amusement. "Yes, you're adorable. Anyways," she addresses Illya again, "the key is our way of asking...we know your lease is up soon, and things have been so good, and we love having you over—"

"And Gaby misses you when you're gone. I am just not up to her cuddling standards anymore."

"You're a close second, though," she says placatingly. "But what we wanted to ask is do you, uh, do you want..."

"To move in with us?" Solo finishes.

"You want me to move in?" Illya asks, wanting to make sure he understood the question amongst all of their back-and-forth.

"We do." Gaby nods, certain, emphatic. "You can take some time to think about it, we know it's a big—"

"Yes."

Solo's eyebrows go up. "Yes?"

"Yes, I want to move in with you. I already spend most of my time here anyways, so it makes sense. Convenient. Very practical."

"Oh, be still my heart," Solo swoons, flopping against Illya's side. "You hear that, Gabs? We're convenient and very practical."

"And I thought romance was dead."

"You know what I mean," Illya grumbles, even as he pulls them closer. "Thank you for asking. Love you both."

Gaby crawls into his lap, draping her arms over his shoulders before kissing him, letting him up only when Solo makes an impatient noise. Then things turn a bit too handsy to stay out on the front step so they head back inside, racing each other to the bedroom. Illya wins, though that might be because Gaby insisted on Solo giving her a piggyback ride up the stairs.

There's a pink, nondescript gift bag lying on the bed. Illya peeks inside. And oh. _Oh my_.

"Is that—?"

Over Solo's shoulder Gaby gives him a wolfish grin. "Yep."

"For—?"

"Yep. Like we talked about last week."

"Since you're haven't been in this relationship as long as us, and I was away for my birthday, I must've forgot to mention—" Solo pauses to let Gaby down "—we are _amazing_ at birthday sex."

* * *

They are.

* * *

They _really_ are.

* * *

In the morning Illya presses a kiss to the back of Gaby's hair then pulls himself out of bed. It's going to be even hotter today, so he wants to get his gardening done before the sun turns oppressive. He coaxes the cucumbers onto the next rung of the trellis Solo helped him build, pausing to gently wrap their questing, curling vines around the supports, takes yet more suckers off the tomatoes, pulls a few weeds from between the peppers then decides that's good enough for now.

The kitchen is mercifully now smoke-free, though none of them had the wherewithal to do dishes last night so it's still a disaster zone. Solo is up, puttering away at the sink with the big mixing bowls, the dishwasher already humming and sloshing to his left. Gaby has wandered down, too, sitting cross-legged on one of the kitchen chairs, powering through a bowl of cereal while she pours through the latest issues of her car magazines.

Illya takes a moment to stop and stare. Somehow, even though Solo is in sweatpants and Gaby looks grumpily half-awake, they're still the same horribly, lamentably attractive people who made his life absolute hell before inviting him to share theirs. And soon he'll get to do this every morning.

"Illya, you left your laundry basket in the hall and I almost tripped and killed myself on it last night when I went to pee at four a.m., so I threw your stuff in the washing machine when I got up," Gaby mumbles past a mouthful of cereal. "But it's doing a weird thing and stopped halfway through the cycle. Your clothes are all wet and kinda soapy right now, sorry. I'll have a look after breakfast."

"Oh, and if you're heading out later can you grab some milk?" Solo adds.

This will be Illya's life soon, once he moves in fully. Broken washing machines and grocery lists, the unromantic, frustrating little mundanities. And he can't wait to get started.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I once again both blame and thank my dazzlingly brilliant beta, bioticsandheadshots, who goaded/encouraged me to write a piece for Illya's birthday, especially since most of my WIPs are not nearly so kind to poor Illya. But for now I will give him happy things!
> 
> This is, believe it or not, not the sequel I'd originally envisaged for Dirty Talk. There is still more left to be told in this story. But this interlude inserted itself into the universe and charmed me into giving it a home. Much like Illya with these two nutcases.
> 
> ETA also the card they get Illya for his birthday is real, delightful, and you can buy it for your loved ones/friends/enemies through Hallmark Cards.


End file.
